


Promises Whispered Like Prayers

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [19]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Estrangement, M/M, Makeup Sex, Post-Canon, Post-Inception, Reconciliation, bdsm undertones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-03-28 03:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13895073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: Can Eames and Arthur find their ways back to each other?His phone is ringing. His phone rings a lot, unfortunately. And while the rational part of Arthur’s brain knows that the best way to shut the damn thing up is to actually answer… just no.





	1. Is It Dark Enough?

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are! The moment we've been working towards for what feels like an eternity. Holy motherfucking shit nuggets, y'all, we finally made it. New York. Hope it's worth the wait.
> 
> Picks up immediately from the end of _Flicker of Celluloid_

 

Virginia, USA

 

His phone is ringing. His phone rings a lot, unfortunately. And while the rational part of Arthur’s brain knows that the best way to shut the damn thing up is to actually _answer_ … just no. That hasn’t been happening. And he’s apparently too much of a masochist to just turn the phone off. So instead he listens to it ring and ring, stalked by melodic tones and curt message alerts that he’s eager to hear yet desperate to ignore.

Tonight, though… tonight he’s hungover from yesterday—even with a few months of binge drinking under his belt he’s still a fucking lightweight—his head is killing him, and he can’t remember the last time he ate.

And the one thing in the world he wants is Eames. To be here, to hold him and make the pain go away.

The separation has been far more difficult than he anticipated, not made the slightest bit easier by the knowledge that he’s brought this on himself. He’s spent the time shuttered away in the first rental house he could find, locked up in self-imposed isolation with a stack of origami paper—thanks, Dave—and his weight in vodka.

The first week crept along in sleepless misery. The month following rolled by in a daze. But every new day rests heavier on his shoulders than the one before it. Every morning that he wakes without Eames at his side cuts deeper and deeper like glass shards in a half-healed wound.

The truth is, he can’t do this anymore.

He can’t be strong or disciplined. He can’t numb his sorrows or distract himself from the pain. Because it hurts. This hurts so fucking much, and he just wants to hear Eames’s voice one last time.

The ringing phone is in his hand before he overthinks the impulse. “Hey.”

Silence responds. Arthur cringes at his own ineptitude. Stupid. It’s such a stupid way to greet Eames after all this radio silence. Abrupt and meaningless. His voice is too rough. Probably sounds like he hasn’t spoken in weeks, which, granted, isn’t too far off the—

_“Arthur.”_

Ah, Christ. Arthur’s eyes fall shut to block the rest of the world, leaving him in wake of his name on Eames’s lips. There’s so much in that one word, in that one breathy utterance. That voice Arthur has missed like a stolen part of his soul. “Yeah. I mean… hi,” he fumbles. Such an idiot.

The connection fills with wordless tension for a few uncomfortable seconds before Eames asks, _“Are you alright?”_

The concern in Eames’s voice flows over him like a warm blanket before settling within his stomach like a rock. He can so easily picture the worried dip of Eames’s brow. Can well understand the many, alarming reasons why Eames might ask that question right out the gate. Given the world they live in, any number of ill fates could befall either of them at any time. And with Arthur basically dropping off the radar… shit. Shamed by his carelessness, he scrambles to appease. “I’m safe. I’m okay. Uh… just a headache, is all.”

_“I’m sorry to hear that.”_

The careful interest in Eames’s tone burns like an accusation. Arthur scrubs a hand over his face, certain that he’s already fucking up this conversation. “It’s fine.”

_“Where are you?”_

For a split second, he considers lying. “Virginia.”

_“Fuck me, Arthur.”_ Eames’s anger and frustration come through, crisp and curt, across the line. _“Have you been this close the entire time?”_

Yep, definitely should have lied. “I’m sorry.” Shit, he didn’t mean to say that. He sounds too small, too pitiful and selfish. That isn’t how he wants Eames to remember him. But before he can think of what else to say, Eames sighs, a deep, gusty lament that crackles through the speaker.

_“Don’t be sorry, Arthur. Just be_ here _. Where you said you’d be.”_

“I can’t.”

_“You can. It’s easy. Just get on a plane and be here.”_

“Eames—”

_“I waited for you.”_ So much hurt and bewilderment his voice. Arthur didn’t know—could never have expected that someone as extraordinary as Eames was capable of sounding so… lost. _“I’ve been waiting this whole time. But you’re not here.”_

Fuck. Fucking fuck, fuck. He can’t do this. He can’t—

Arthur sags, resistance draining away and leaving him empty. He can’t end things like this. “Okay.” Eames deserves to have this done in person, instead of Arthur running off on him like a coward. “Okay. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

 


	2. Can You See Me?

New York, USA

 

Eames haunts the arrival gates at JFK Airport. He doesn’t know when or if Arthur will actually arrive. Arthur wasn’t exactly forthcoming about his plans, and Eames had been too afraid to push. Scared that the wrong move might send Arthur back into hiding in motherfucking Virginia.

And, no, he still can’t quite wrap his head around that bit of fact. The months that he’s been pining—goddamn _pining_ for his long-lost love, who’s been practically a stone’s throw away the whole time. Anger threatens to bubble up over the greater mass of nerves and desperate need churning in his belly.

In another life, maybe he would have cut his losses. Ridden off into the sunset rather than get strung along by someone who is obviously reconsidering every promise he’s made. But he’s determined to wait, to be there when—yes, damn it, _when_ —Arthur finally gets to New York.

Times passes at a crawl and a rush, all the same. A blurry eternity that feels out of tune with reality. He consumes three shockingly overpriced coffees and picks at an order of chips, all of which dogpile his queasy restlessness. The security guards have long since stopped throwing him the side eye and, to his embarrassment, flick their gaze over him with open pity. They know what he’s slowly allowing himself to accept.

It’s long past the time that he’d expected Arthur to show.

Arthur isn’t coming.

Sitting on a hard metal bench, surrounded by happily reunited families, Eames tries to sort out what his next move will be. He gets as far as step one—standing up, eyes skittering across the suffocating crowd for the nearest exit—before every thought just shuts down. Because he can’t do this. He can’t.

So many times he’s been brought to ashes, only to get up and start all over. All the times he’s scraped off the remnants of one life and shouldered on another.

He can’t do it anymore.

His hands clench. His skin feels too tight. The frantic urge to _move_ prickles through his limbs, punctuated by the shortening of his breath and the sudden racing of his heart. The sensations run in such perfect parallel to his spiraling emotions that it takes Eames several painful seconds to realize it’s not an impending panic attack he’s feeling. No, it’s an instinctive, visceral reaction to the man standing several meters away in the crowd.

Later, looking back, he’ll forgive himself for the delayed comprehension. Arthur is almost unrecognizable in old, faded jeans and a simple red tee shirt. With his ungelled, badly-in-need-of-a-trim hair curling around his ears and dark shadows pooled under his eyes, Arthur is as rumpled and sloppy looking as Eames has ever seen him. Which, considering some of the bloody hijinks and sweaty sexcapades they’ve had together, is truly saying something. Arthur is a mess, and he’s so fucking beautiful that Eames kind of wants to head over and punch him in that pretty mouth.

Eames doesn’t punch him. And he doesn’t head over. No, he locks eyes with Arthur and lets him walk the remaining distance between them. Because Eames is okay with waiting, but he’ll be damned if he’ll chase after Arthur one single step. That he won’t do.

But, oh, is it difficult, once Arthur is standing close enough to touch. Close enough for Eames to hear his stilted breaths and read the residue of an epic hangover all over that gorgeous face. It’s all too surreal after months of separation. “You’re wearing a tee shirt,” he blurts out and watches Arthur twitch self-consciously.

“You have a beard,” Arthur counters.

He rubs a hand over his face because, yeah, somewhere along the way he’s gone from cultivated scruff to lumberjack chic without noticing. “And since when did you start drinking?”

Arthur winces and shuffles his gaze over Eames’s shoulder, to the tips of his shoes, the people around them—everywhere except Eames’s eyes. “I may have picked up some bad habits recently.”

“I’ll say.” Bad habits like not answering phones and “…fucking off to sodding _Virginia_ for example.” Oops, he didn’t intend to actually say that part aloud. Too indignant and provoking. This isn’t how he meant this moment to go.

Arthur clenches his jaw around whatever pithy comeback sprang to mind and throws up his chin. “We should probably take this conversation elsewhere.”

“Right.” Eames sighs. “No, you’re right. Have you got any luggage to collect?”

“Just this,” Arthur indicates the messenger bag hanging off his shoulder.

Eames tells himself not to read much into that. They’re heading for an entire house filled with Arthur’s things, after all. No reason to make assumptions about Arthur’s intentions just yet. There will be plenty of time for discussing intentions later. “Shall we, then?”

 


	3. Do You Want Me?

They don’t talk in the taxi, but given how things went the last time he was in a vehicle with Eames, Arthur embraces the lack of small talk as the calm before the storm. He does his best to ignore the thrumming tension between them and just enjoy being close to Eames. He wants to soak in the moment, fix every sight, sound, and smell of Eames into his memory for the interminable future.

He’s surprised when they pull up in front of his Brooklyn safe house. It’s not until they’re inside and Arthur is putting his bag down next to an unfamiliar throw pillow that he realizes… “You’ve been staying here.” From the corner of his eye, he can see the stiffening of Eames’s shoulders.

“Is that a problem?”

“No. Not at all. I just thought maybe…” He stares at the pillow—a surprisingly subtle magenta damask—like it can give him a roadmap for navigating this conversation.

Honestly, what he thought was that Eames would put as much emotional distance between them as possible. With the way things went down, he certainly didn’t expect Eames to stay here like they were still together, to settle into Arthur’s house like it was his own.

That thought, the illusion of what could have been, sends a pang through his heart.

Eames clears his throat. “Look, Arthur. Belfast was a whole mess of shit, I think we’ll agree on that. But I want—need you to know that… I’m sorry.”

Arthur jolts, turning to face Eames but averting his eyes at the last minute. “Don’t apologize. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“Not entirely true.”

“I made my choices. You’re not responsible for them.”

“No, I know. I’m not saying what you did isn’t incredibly fucked up—” Arthur winces. “—and we’re going to talk about that, don’t think we won’t.”

“Eames.”

“But I should never have… I wasn’t fair to you. I wasn’t…”

Arthur shakes his head and tries to head him off. He can’t let Eames go on thinking along these lines. “All’s fair and such. It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_. God, Arthur,” Eames breaks off, sounding ragged. “Some of the things I said. I wanted to hurt you. So I did.”

He lets his eyes close, just for a moment. Lets himself hide. “I know,” he says in his gentlest voice. “And it’s okay.”

Eames makes a frustrated noise. “No. We should have talked. Instead of attacking you, I should have made you talk to me.”

Arthur laughs even though he’s pretty sure nothing will ever be funny again. “And do you really think anything would have been different? That it would have ended differently?”

Eames goes quiet. “Does it have to end?”

“Jesus Christ.” Arthur swipes a hand through his hair. He’s tired, his head hurts, and it’s so hard not to walk over and beg Eames to hold him. “Don’t do this.”

“Arthur, just listen—”

“No, Eames. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t pretend like this,” he gestures between them, “is something that should continue.”

“How can you say that?”

“How can you not? You’ve seen for yourself now why this can’t go on. Did you forget already what I’ve done? What I’ll do again, if necessary?”

“Arthur.”

“And let’s not forget what led us here in the first place.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You, Eames. You pulled back first. Don’t deny it. All year you’ve been pulling away. Flinching away from me. Because deep down you know I’m too fucked up to love.”

The sharp intake of air is like a crack of lightning in the room. “That’s not it at all.”

But Arthur isn’t listening. He’s too tired to keep waiting for Eames to draw the obvious conclusion. Not when Eames is so determined to blindly ignore what’s staring them in the face. “There’s something broken in me, Eames. Something that broke a long time ago. Or maybe it was always wrong. Whatever. It can’t be fixed. I can’t be with you. I tried to make you see, make you understand so you would walk away before…” He trails off, not knowing the words to make Eames understand something that he’s never wanted to articulate even to himself.

“Before what?” Eames edges closer, no longer safely on the other side of the room.

Arthur tenses when it seems like Eames might reach out to him. He can’t handle any touching while he’s trying to destroy his own last hope at happiness. “There are some things even I can’t live with. I won’t let that happen.”

 


	4. Can You Reach Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to CoffeeWithConsequences for reading this over and helping me clear my head.

 

Eames fights back the edge of panic. He went into this with only half a clue as to what he should say, and he can tell he’s not getting through. Arthur is closed off and skittish, hasn’t even looked him in the eye since that first moment in the airport. It’s driving him crazy since, for so long now, he’s been aching for Arthur to just look him in the eyes again.

And then Arthur’s words catch up with him.

“Wait.” He replays the last few minutes in his mind. He doesn’t want to believe that what he’s thinking is true. It would be too tragic and infuriating. But the miserable guilt on Arthur’s face sends a curl of furious dread down his throat. “You tried to make me see… You set this all up. The job. The kid. All this. Was a test?”

Arthur shakes his head but continues to dodge eye contact. “Not a test. A get out a jail free card.”

The absurdity of that statement hits like physical blow. He knows Arthur can be a controlling little shit, but this reaches a whole new level. And coming from Arthur, of all people… Arthur should know better than to fuck with a man’s free will.

“You stupid bastard.” Arthur’s back slams into the wall, Eames’s hands knotted in that fucking red shirt. With vicious satisfaction, he sees that Arthur’s widened eyes are finally meeting his head-on. “You don’t get to make those decisions for me. If I wanted to be free of you, I’d walk away at whatever point I choose, and there’d be nothing you could do to stop me.”

Arthur sags in his grip. “I—” But Eames shakes him, none too gently, before he can spout any more incredibly stupid things.

“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up and listen. I’m not some wilting flower that’s afraid of being alone. I can get by just fine without you. But I don’t want that. I don’t _want_ to be free. I want to be so tied to your side that you forget what it’s like to stand on your own.”

And Arthur—broken, aggravating darling that he is—is already shaking his head. “It’s not that simple, and you know it.”

“Goddamn it, Arthur.” Because Eames finally understands what’s going on. Arthur is giving up on them. He can see it in the stubborn set of that mouth and the tears glimmering, unshed. This day was never meant to be about heartfelt reunions and happily ever afters, not if Arthur is to have a say in it. Arthur, it’s clear now, only came to New York out of some noble obligation to break up with him face to face. Like a proper little martyr.

And doesn’t that just brass him right the fuck off.

He gets a handful of Arthur’s hair—so convenient to do with it long and loose—and yanks his head to the side. Savors the pained grimace on Arthur’s face. Swells to a half-hard state in his pants at the small whine of distress Arthur lets off. Because, yeah—Arthur is a bit too bent for his own good, and how easy it is for Eames to turn Arthur’s own desires against him.

He buries his face against the most vulnerable part of Arthur’s neck. Fuck, the burn of hot skin touching his own is a shock. He had almost forgotten how hot Arthur’s body runs. “Did you forget so quickly, darling,” he croons, “I’m yours. And you.” A gentle kiss. “Belong.” Lick along those straining tendons. “To.” Quick, sharp bite. “Me.” He nuzzles the red mark left behind, feeling the tug and rasp of his beard. “Always.”

Arthur drags in a ragged breath. “No matter what?”

“No matter what.” He’s so close, this is no time for ambiguous statements. Arthur is in his arms, yes, but Eames can feel him holding back still. “Forever,” he swears.

“You can’t promise that.”

“Fuck you.”

“Eames—”

“You’re mine,” he says, reaching up with both hands now to cup Arthur’s face. “Every part and morsel of you. Even, yes, the bits that are particularly frightening. Still mine. I will never give you up, never let you go.”

Arthur’s gaze is openly vulnerable as he searches Eames’s face for—what? Hesitation? Deceit? Conditions? Well, he’ll find none of those because Eames has never felt more certain of anything in his life than this.

Eames presses in against Arthur, caging him from head to toe with his own body. The stab of pain as he puts pressure on his healing tattoo only serves to reinforce his conviction. “It’s not a promise. It’s more than that. We belong together. To each other.” He doesn’t have to work to fill his voice with every ounce of sincerity he possesses. This isn’t a con that he’s trying to sell. Just the pure truth.

And still, Arthur holds back, all the while devastating him with those longing eyes.

Fine, then. Talking has never been their strong suit, anyway.

Arthur’s lips are dry and tense beneath his own, but Eames doesn’t let either fact stop him from seizing Arthur’s mouth with a demanding kiss. And it doesn’t take long before Arthur is opening up for him, beautifully needy and eager. Eames sinks in with his tongue, slanting his head to push in deeper. _More_. He wants more. He wants everything.

His hands sweep down, blind and grasping, and find Arthur’s wrists. Pins them to the wall beside Arthur’s head with a grip guaranteed to bruise. Arthur must have the same thought because now he’s crying out into the kiss, broken whimpers that empty the remaining blood from Eames’s brain and sends it south. And still he keeps pushing, eating the wanton sounds off Arthur’s lips while he presses forward with his hips, making his intentions clear.

Arthur responds with frantic little thrusts, so he notches one leg between Arthur’s thighs, high and tight where he can control Arthur’s movements, control his pleasure.

Arthur breaks the kiss with a frustrated moan, body squirming for more friction. “Eames, c’mon.”

“No,” Eames growls, scraping his teeth down Arthur’s throat. “Not until I let you.”

“Fuck,” Arthur gasps and bucks against him despite the admonition. Eames’s eyes practically roll up into the back of his head when he feels their cocks rubbing together through their clothes. It’s almost too much. Arthur—the real Arthur, his Arthur—in his arms again and begging to be touched. “Eames, please.”

“No,” he repeats, resolute. “I’m not ready for this to be over. Not until I’ve taken everything you have to give.”

 


	5. Shut Your Mouth

 

Arthur lets out a low sound of pure want. He can’t help it. Eames’s words, his unyielding hold, are barbaric in their dominance. Greedy. Possessive. Demanding.

Exactly what he needs.

He presses forward, needing to feel more of Eames against him. Would crawl into him and live tucked up against that thundering heart if he could. “Yes. Everything. I want to be yours.”

“You are, darling. All mine.”

It’s all that he’s longed to hear after so many barren, drunken nights of self-recrimination. But it’s not enough. “Don’t let me go.”

Eames tightens his grip on Arthur’s wrists even though they both know that isn’t what he means. “Never.”

_Prove it_ , he wants to say. _Hold me down and pull me close and tell me you’ll never push me away._ He wants to beg for the words over and over until they can’t be denied. Until they have to be true. He wants to confess every filthy secret and every shameful fear, pour the entirety of his being into Eames’s hands and ask for forgiveness like a supplicant.

The storm of emotions feels too big and torrential inside of him to be captured by any words, but, in a way, he manages to say it all with one utterance. “Eames.” It’s a raging cry that echoes within Arthur’s mind and soul. Fierce like a scream, for all that it tumbles from his lips in little more than a whisper.

“I’m here,” Eames says, soothing and threatening at the same time. “I’m here, and neither one of us is going anywhere.”

He bucks his hips again, needing more promises before he can truly let go. “Please.” And that’s all he can say anymore. Just _please_ and _Eames_.

Thankfully, he’s saved from needing to speak further as Eames takes command of his mouth one more. And—yes. There it is. The taste of hunger and frustration on his tongue. The cutting edge of teeth against his lips, the scratch of beard across his chin. Arthur feels the long-held tension in his body trickle away as he wallows in the sensations of _Eames_.

Eames is here.

He lets that knowledge take root, lets himself believe that it means everything he needs it to mean. It gives him the courage to keeps his hands high above him when Eames releases his wrists and drags hard palms down his waiting body. Arthur takes the chance that he doesn’t need to grab hold—doesn’t need to cling tight to prevent Eames from going anywhere.

Those hands rake across his shoulders and down the center line of his chest. Becoming reacquainted with the shape of him. As if either of them could ever forget what it feels like when they’re this close and touching.

Eames draws back from the kiss so he can watch his fingers carve paths down Arthur’s cloth-covered belly. “This fucking shirt. Next time, I’m going to take you while you’re wearing nothing but this shirt.”

“Or, you know, this time.” Arthur tries a small smile with the words, thrilling at the idea of _next time_ and all the other times that might come.

“Nope,” Eames is already tugging the shirt up. “This time I want to feel you. See your skin as I mark it up.” And the shirt barely clears his head before Eames dives forward, puts his mouth on the base of Arthur’s throat. He feels the wet stroke of Eames’s tongue, the heady pressure against his flesh, and finally drops his arms so that he can hold Eames closer. Oh, fuck, he’s missed this so much. He needs more. Needs to feel Eames’s skin, too—sink his teeth into flexing muscle, breath him in, and lick the little hairs around his nipples. The desire to get Eames naked surges fast and hot, and he fumbles blindly at hems and buttons until Eames curses and pulls away long enough to yank his arms free of his sleeves and chuck the shirt behind him. And—

Oh. Oh, god.

Arthur sees it almost immediately. He’s long ago memorized every scar and dot of ink that forms the tapestry of Eames’s body—of course he notices _this_ without even trying, and his heart shatters and coalesces within the same breath.

The tattoo is obviously new, still red and angry around the edges, curling around the entire left side of Eames’s lower torso and consuming most of the blank skin that had been remaining. It probably hurts like a bitch, but Arthur can’t stop himself from touching. He traces the curve of one eye with a steady but gentle finger, marveling that he’s ever looked as playful and transparent as this. But he doesn’t question the accuracy; Eames’s forges are always the purest form of truth.

This is what Eames sees when he looks at him.

He smiles—maybe even that same smile, he can’t tell—and rests a feather-light hand atop the tattoo. Claiming it. Believing. “I love you, too.”

Eames looks down at the hand on his side, but not before Arthur sees the welling of tears in his eyes. “Eames,” he whispers, reaching out with both hands now to bring that gaze, those lips back to him. “I love you,” he murmurs through a kiss, “I love you so much.”

Eames kisses him back, just short of desperate, as the salty tang of tears comes and goes. This time, when he pulls back, he doesn’t go very far. Just rests his forehead against Arthurs, mouths brushing as he speaks. “Turned me into a bloody sap, you have.”

Arthur can’t help but grin a little. Because this is really happening. “Well, what boy doesn’t like romantic gestures?”

“Oh, it’s romance you’re after?” Eames skims his hands low and back to dip into the waistband of Arthur’s jeans. “I think I can manage that.”

Arthur rolls his hips back, encouraging those questing fingers to venture lower. These last months, he’s been too drunk and too ashamed to bother getting himself off—didn’t care much about things like that without Eames to light that flame for him. But now he’s back where he belongs, in Eames’s arms. And the flame burns like a wildfire beneath his skin. “Maybe we should skip the romance and jump to the part where you’re inside me.”

Eames groans at his words, the sound quickly muffled as Arthur goes in for another kiss. He lets all the pent-up need and desire consume him, driving his hands to roam and his hips to writhe. The press of Eames’s hard length against his own is such a sweet shock, he’s already riding the edge of orgasm though they’ve barely touched.

But it’s not enough. He needs more than just the hot spill of come in their pants. He needs everything.

He tugs out of Eames’s hold, ignoring the grumble of protest, and drops to his knees right there and then. With the wall to his back and Eames looming above him.

“Fuck. Arth—”

He rubs his face against the press of Eames’s erection, recalling memories of doing exactly this dozens of times over. Thrilling at how familiar Eames’s body is to him, yet no less exciting than the first time he got on his knees for this man. And now… he pauses with the zipper half down, eyes diverted to the tattoo mere inches from his face.

Now everything is going to be different.

Eames shifts on his feet, does an awkward little hand flail and starts to turn away, as if to hide the tattoo from Arthur’s sight. “Is it weird? Looking at yourself? Sorry, I should have—”

Arthur grabs his hips before he can back away. Bites the rim of his navel in admonition. “No. It looks good on you.”

Eames huffs, but his eyes reveal how pleased he’s feeling over the small compliment. “You mean _you_ look good on me.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Cheeky bastard.”

Arthur gazes back up at him, marveling at the twists of fate and how this day is turning out to be not at all what he’d prepared for. Here they are, flirting and bantering like they usually do. Except now it’s different. Now it’s better. This is real. His.

He smirks, teasing and sharp like he always does when pushing Eames’s buttons, and let’s everything he’s feeling show through that miniscule expression. “Do something about it, then.”

 


	6. Hold Your Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been tinkering with this chapter for far too long... There! Posted. Done deal.

Eames recognizes the challenge for what it is. Remembers the last time Arthur threw those charged words at him, and the fervent, soul-baring night that took place. A hunger—primal, demanding—stirs within him.

“Do something, hm?” He shoves a hand through Arthur’s hair and tugs. Hard. Watches Arthur’s eyes fall closed in unmitigated bliss. “Something like this?”

“Yes,” Arthur gasps. “More.”

He tightens his grip, demonstrating that the only freedom of movement Arthur will have is what little Eames allows. Not that it stops Arthur from testing boundaries, pulling against the hold just a bit. Just enough to fit his face against Eames’s pelvis, rooting along the straining denim with an open mouth until Eames feels the damp heat of his breath on the head of his dick, even through layers of cotton. He shivers and has to clear his throat twice before he can talk. “You want that? Take it out, then.”

Arthur complies with blatant eagerness, yanking and shoving with impatient hands until the jeans are down past Eames’s hips, exposing his hard cock to Arthur’s covetous stare. Eames sees his eyes tracking to the tip, peeking out of the foreskin with a wet gleam.

Eames tsks. “Look at that, making a mess. Best clean it up before it spills.”

No further directive is needed. Arthur lunges forward, mouth slack and whining. But Eames stops him short with a firm jerk on his hair. “Just your tongue.”

Arthur gives a full-body shudder, breath already coming out of him in rapid little huffs. He surges forward again, and this time Eames lets him close the distance between them. “Oh, fuck. Yes. Like that.” Arthur laps at his cock, up the shaft and over the head, dipping into the foreskin to draw up every trace of precome he can find. There’s nothing kittenish or tentative about his actions. Each stroke is firm, devouring, loaded with his intention to consume Eames one drop at a time.

Eames watches, enthralled. Yesterday a part of him believed he would never have this again, and now he’s afraid to blink lest he miss even a second of this incredible sight. The slick spread of Arthur’s lips. The dark fan of lashes resting against the pale skin of his cheekbones. And the furrowed lines of his brow that relax in gentle increments, the more of Eames that he gets on his tongue.

It’s the world’s greatest tease—warm, wet swipes of tongue that do nothing to appease the pure _want_ in Eames’s blood. Arthur obeys his instruction—such a good boy, he is—using nothing but his tongue to work him over, and it’s even more maddening than Eames had anticipated. The urge to shove his dick in deep and hit the finish line tempts him like a demon.

But he isn’t ready to give up the reins, yet. First, he needs to rattle the cages of their borders, to test the serrated line where _he and him_ become _them_. And what better way to accomplish that than with Arthur on his knees, surrendering his intractable will over to Eames. It’s more than a matter of trust or acceptance. It’s a fundamental knowing, the understanding that Arthur is his to command, and that Eames will give anything and everything that Arthur wants. No more hesitations.

Perhaps not the textbook definition of a healthy relationship, especially considering what they’ve just been through. But it’s right. It’s fucked up and glorious. It’s _them_.

Only that demon whispers again, this time taunting Eames with the fear that Arthur succumbed too easily. His budding joy to finally—fucking _finally_ —be on the same page about their relationship doesn’t stop an ill-timed jolt of insecurity. Because Arthur feels absolutely amazing, yes. But he has to be sure…

He pulls back, balls clenching in protest. Has to put a hand to Arthur’s throat just to hold him off long enough to gain his attention. “Hey. I didn’t—I mean… I love you.” He’s an idiot. Should have said the words back the minute Arthur—

But Arthur grabs at his hips with needy insistence. He pushes against Eames’s hold until Eames has to let go or else risk choking him. “I know. I know. Love you, too.” Arthur mutters, straining to get his mouth back where he so clearly wants it. “Let me… Please, Eames. I need…” His voice is thick with frustrated lust, and Eames doesn’t have the heart to deny him.

“Easy, now,” he croons, taking himself in hand. “Open for me.”

Arthur’s mouth drops wide, his face the very picture of impatience. Eames feeds his cock inside with a steady push, gliding across Arthur’s bottom lip and onto the silken bed of his tongue. It’s hot and slippery, the stuff of Eames’s best, lurid fantasies. “There you go. So perfect.” He keeps going, driven by Arthur’s low moan and his own intimate knowledge of Arthur’s limits, until half his length rests in Arthur’s lax mouth.

With gentle hands he guides Arthur into leaning backwards until his shoulders rest against the wall behind him. “Let me see those eyes.”

Arthur looks up, eyes dark and unfocused. Eames can see how much he wants this—knows him well enough and can all but smell Arthur’s desperation to be taken and overwhelmed. God, how Eames loves being the one who gets to provide this. He’s the one Arthur turns to, exposing a need that leaves him so achingly vulnerable and beautiful that Eames can barely handle it.

He looks forward to spending the rest of his life like this. Giving Arthur this.

For now… For now, Eames plans to make this encounter hot enough to burn away all the residual heartache of the last few months.

He braces one hand on the wall, slips the other down to cradle Arthur’s head. In another time, the gesture might have been comforting and protective, but Eames makes sure that Arthur can feel the unyielding strength of his hold. “Suck,” he demands.

Arthur’s breath hitches, eyes fluttering half-shut as he begins to nurse on Eames’s cock with eager pulls, tongue flexing in a constant massage. And, fuck, it’s so good. No projection—not even the dirtiest figment of his imagination—could ever compare to how good Arthur feels. “Ah, god. Yes. Get it nice and wet in there.”

He takes over, then. Slow and shallow thrusts while Arthur’s mouth stays slick and firm around his cock. Sucking and swallowing occasionally, moaning constantly. And his hands—those elegant, capable hands clench so tightly in the jeans bunched around Eames’s thighs, clinging, as if Arthur is barely hanging on to reality.

Eames keeps it up until he feels himself getting close to orgasm. As delightful as this is, he can’t ignore the fever in Arthur’s eyes for much longer. So just as he finds himself approaching the precipice of control, he pauses. Or tries to. Arthur won’t unlatch himself long enough for Eames to pull out, and if he wiggles his tongue one more time they’re going to miss out on the main event.

“Love, you—fuck. Going to make me come,” he grits out. He’s too close. He needs Arthur to back off _now_ before he loses it.

He’s not at all prepared for Arthur to whimper, a high and broken sound that throbs along his cock and straight to his balls. Not expecting Arthur to double down on his suction, tongue working like crazy, as if he means to suck Eames’s soul right out through his slit. So he’s definitely not ready for the orgasm that crashes into and through him, rippling up his spine and out his mouth with a strangled cry. His balls clench, cock pulsing in time with his ragged breaths. And Arthur just keeps sucking, swallowing everything, until Eames can’t take anymore and has to push him away.

He gets maybe a second or two to breathe, to blink away spots from his vision. Next thing he knows, his back hits the wall with enough force to steal what little breath he’s found. Arthur is on his feet, crowding in against him. Shaking, Keening. Tucking his face into Eames’s neck while he mindlessly ruts against Eames’s belly. He can feel how hard Arthur is, frantic for his own completion.

Through the sated pleasure fogging his brain, Eames manages to get his hands around Arthur’s bum, to pull him up tight where he can find the friction he needs. He doesn’t, however, have enough wits to hold Arthur back from the essential open wound covering his side. He hisses, flinching away from the insistent press of Arthur’s body against the raw skin of his tattoo.

Arthur staggers back. “Eames. Shit. I’m—” He stutters over the apology. Eames can tell by the glassy eyes and trembling hands that Arthur is barely keeping himself together. Those few words are as coherent as he’s going to get.

“No, no. Hush. You’re okay. We’re okay. I’ll take care of you.”

“Please. I need… Can’t touch you…”

“But _I_ can touch _you_ ,” he says, kicking off the rest of his clothes.

Arthur is silent and docile as Eames drags him upstairs to the bedroom, too lost in arousal to fuss at being manhandled. Instead, he lets himself be stripped and pushed down onto the bed, his hands reaching for Eames so sweetly while his cock stretches like an obscene beacon, flushed and rigid.

“Eames.”

“I know, love. Onto your front, now. Time for me to make you feel good.” The instant Arthur is face down on the bed, he starts grinding his hips against the mattress. Eames allows it since he knows Arthur is too wound up to be toyed with for long. Later, though. Later he’ll draw things out, break Arthur to pieces over the course of hours, until neither of them can move. And then he’ll do it all over again.

For now, he gets the lube—under the pillow on the right side, as usual, even though Arthur hasn’t been there to make it _his_ side—and crawls onto the bed beside Arthur. He takes a hold of Arthur’s ass and spreads him wide, giving himself an unhindered view of Arthur’s hole. “Hello, gorgeous.” It’s a beautiful sight, dusky pink and tightly knotted from the tension running through Arthur’s body. “Missed you.”

“ _Eames_.”

“Yes, of course.” Best that he get down to business before Arthur finishes himself off on the bedspread. Opting for efficiency over elegance, he drizzles a stream of lube directly onto Arthur’s hole and massages it in with his thumb. Rubbing in firm circles until the rim is slick and softened. Ready. And then he slips the first finger in deep until Arthur gasps and sputters into the bedsheets.

“More.”

Taking him at his word, Eames works a second finger in, draws back, fucks them both back in. Again. Short jabs to open Arthur up and stretch him out, creating enough space to cram in a third finger. Giving Arthur the thick fullness he craves if the wailing approval is anything to go by. “Like that?”

“ _Don’t stop_.”

“I won’t.” Eames places a kiss on the small of Arthur’s back. “Won’t ever stop as long as you need me.” He digs the fingers of his free hand into Arthur’s ass cheek, keeping him spread wide so Eames can thrust faster, harder.

He loves this. Loves how Arthur wiggles and squirms on his hand—the wet, filthy sounds of his hole swallowing Eames’s fingers. Loves the feel of Arthur’s body fighting the intrusion, squeezing tight and, god, he can’t wait to get that around his cock once more.

Most of all, he loves watching Arthur’s back tense and flex as he gets fucked, lean muscles emphasized by a sheen of sweat, and all the smooth, creamy skin bared and vulnerable to his gaze. He leans down to get his mouth all over it, sucking and biting until rosy bruises blossom on that pale skin. And never once does he stop moving his hand—pushing, in and out, again and again until Arthur begins to shake, hips shifting madly, eyes squeezed shut and fingers clawed into the sheets. Desperate little noises trip out of his mouth, broken gasps of ecstasy and distress that make Eames’s dick swell with renewed interest.

He arches over Arthur, ignoring the painful angle of his wrist, and bites down—hard—on the base of Arthur’s neck at the same that he crooks his fingers against his prostate and _rubs_.

Five strokes, maybe six, is all Arthur can take before he cries out, hips bucking into the mattress, ass clamping down so strongly on Eames’s fingers that he can barely move. So he dances his fingertips over the sweet spot, working Arthur through the orgasm while murmuring words of adoration between kisses to his shoulders. “That’s it, love. That’s perfect. Let me feel you.” He savors the moment, relishes each tremor coursing through Arthur’s body, each hidden pulse of muscle.

It takes Arthur a long time to settle. A long time until he relaxes enough for Eames to slip his fingers out—wiping them on the edge of the bedsheet where Arthur can’t see—and drag Arthur out of a truly impressive wet spot. “All right, darling?”

Arthur hums something nonsensical. Figuring that’s the best answer he’s going to get, Eames just shuffles them both around until he’s lying on his back with Arthur cuddled up against his side. The right, not-sore side because, even in his numbed-out state, Arthur is capable of nagging Eames into appeasing his every whim.

It’s a glorious feeling, being bitched at by Arthur again.

For the first time in months, Eames is at ease. That nameless something—jagged and fractious—that has been seething inside of him uncoils and drifts away. And in its place: faith. They may not be completely fixed just yet, but he has Arthur in his arms.

Eames tightens his hold, feels the thrum of Arthur’s heartbeat against his skin.

He can handle what comes next as long as he has this.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter titles from the song "My Skin" by Natalie Merchant. Next up on our playlist: "Heavy in Your Arms" by Florence + The Machine
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


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